Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “Why—you my long-lost mother now?” she says, defensively.

  I’m not going to let Aphro bait me. I know she doesn’t know where her real mother is. The last time she saw her, they were snuggled together on the couch, watching The Wizard of Oz and eating graham crackers, before a caseworker came and took Aphro away with her little blue vinyl suitcase in tow. She never saw her mother again.

  Aphro continues to stare at me with her sizeable pout puffed out. I decide it’s time to attack: “You obviously have been in the loop with Loopy—a lot. And, I can’t believe you flapped your lips to him!” I hiss at her, making a slur of Lupo’s name.

  “What, you jealous? You should just get with Zeus already and stop pretending you’re the Princess of Pink all alone in your Chicken Little castle waiting for the ceiling to collapse,” Aphro snarls, leveling her “Bed-Stuy glare” at me.

  “Zeus has a girlfriend, so how desperado should I behave? Duh?” I say.

  “That’s never stopped you from following the yellow-brick road before,” Aphro says, challenging me.

  “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to my job interview—late,” I announce, coldly, before marching off.

  “Let me go with you,” Aphro says, her voice softening as she trots behind me.

  “No!” I whisper sharply, turning around to put her on blast. “You’re so secretive—and shady, too! You say you don’t like Lupo. ‘He’s too short. He talks funny. His nose is too big.’ But now you’re kanoodling with him?”

  “We had lunch—fusilli. It’s pasta shaped like corkscrews—like your hair when you’re not pulling it out!” snaps Aphro. “And who says I like him? I’m just trying to get some photos for my portfolio, okay?”

  I glare at Aphro. Lupo promised he’d take feline fashion shots of us for our modeling portfolios—but “us” seems to be transforming into “her.”

  “I should have known there was an angle to your dangle,” I say, nodding.

  “As if you would ever go out with a short guy either,” counters Aphro. “You’re only feeling Zeus cuz he’s model material.”

  “At least I’m honest about it!” I blurt out, walking away.

  Aphro pleads with me. “Lemme go with you. I just can’t deal with a situation right now.”

  I’m tempted to force Aphro to show her hand like in a poker game, but I give in. “Awright,” I say, mocking her, “you’d better click your heels and follow me down the yellow-brick road.”

  Once we get outside, I’m startled by the two lingering Dalmation dogs huddled by the pink gates. Directly across the street from Fashion International is Dalmation Tech High School, stomping grounds of computer and mechanically inclined students. They inhabit grungy gray hallways that no self-respecting fashionista would dare darken. Every day after school, members of their pimply student body camp outside the fabbie pink gates of Fashion International, licking their chops at the sight of budding fashionistas in the hopes that we’ll throw them a bone—not. By four o’clock, however, they’ve usually scrammed—with their tails tucked between their baggy-panted legs.

  “Can’t believe they’re still here,” snarls Aphro, rolling her eyes at the partners in cyber crime clinging to each other in the hopes of bolstering their computerchip-operated egos.

  The shorter one raises his eyebrow at me.

  “Puhleez, who are you trying to hoodwink?” I snap without flinching.

  Shortie’s confidence crumbles like Piggly Wiggly blue cheese. His smirk vanishes and he stares down at his dingy “No Edition” sneakers.

  Aphro sticks her arm through mine as we skip away.

  “You ain’t all that,” snipes the taller one, receding like the Grim Reaper into his gray hoodie.

  Looking back, Aphro shouts, “Yes, we are!”

  When we reach the Fortieth Street entrance to the subway, Aphro reminds me to call our crew to give them a “catty” update: “Felinez has probably given birth to five purses by now.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d better call my mom first—cuz she’ll charge five more purses she can’t afford if she doesn’t hear from me!” I counter.

  Once I get my mom on the phone, I remind her that I’m headed to a job interview and will be home late. She reminds me not to talk to any strangers, despite the fact that I’m almost sixteen and quite familiar with her shrill drill. Then she proceeds to ply me with the latest statistics: “Seventy-six new sexual predators in our neighborhood,” she says, curtly. I focus on the background noises instead of my mother’s voice: the shrill beeps from an electronic cash register and women’s voices—probably customers. My mom works as an assistant manager at Forgotten Diva Boutique, a plus-size clothing store, on Madison Avenue. My mom now senses I’m lost in la-la, because she raises her voice. “I want you to go online tonight and print out the updated list and give it to Chenille, too.”

  “What are the chances of me printing out the faces of sexual predators if I can’t get my computer to work, huh? Do you have any stats for that?” I snap at her, impatiently.

  “Just turn the computer off for a while; sometimes that works,” offers my mom, feebly, “and watch that tone, you hear me?”

  “Okeydokey,” I say, squashing what I really want to say: How about a dial tone! Things between my mom and me are supa-tense right now, because she’s not sure about this whole Catwalk competition thing. She also seems tired all the time—which is probably why she snaps at me instead of talking.

  “She thinks that I’m gonna be pressuring her for funds to front our fashion, that’s what it is,” I say out loud, flipping my cell phone shut. “I wish I could shut her off for a while.”

  “I hear that,” Aphro says, giggling, twirling her lariat necklace, “but I sure hope she didn’t!”

  I wait until we get off the subway at the 135th Street station to call Felinez. She is so desperate for info she sounds like she’s been chomping on piñatas.

  “Three hundred dollars, mija!” Felinez screams into the phone after I break down the booty like a proud pirate. She’s screaming so loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. Aphro and I are standing in front of the window of a supa-fly boutique called Montgomery, on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and 136th Street.

  “Aphro puffs,” I coo, pointing to a black satin appliqué of a black girl with big round eyes and Afro puffs sewn on the front of a white T-shirt.

  “Omigod, I have to have that T-shirt!” Aphro declares. “I’d better get a j-o-b to snag that—okay.”

  Meanwhile, I continue to fill in Felinez: “I know—you’re in charge of buying accessories supplies, but don’t get too hide-happy,” I warn her.

  As for the Design Challenge, Felinez already has a plan for bagging the Benjamins: “Mija, it’s the garbage can! Something you pass every day, right? That three-hundred-dollar bonus is ours!”

  “You must be sipping salsa sauce. So we’re supposed to design trash can lids that can be worn as headgear?” I ask, baffled.

  “No! The stuff inside!” Felinez screams excitedly.

  “Of course, I should have known,” I moan. I met Felinez “Fifi” Cartera in the first grade in the Boogie Down, where I lived until last year. Ever since, the two of us have made quite a pair of hyperactive kittens: when I get nervous, I yank my hair, while Fifi Dumpsterdives to find materials she can recycle into pouches, purses, belts.

  Now I can hear her older sister Michelette screaming in Spanish. “Dejame! I’m not getting off the phone!” Felinez retorts.

  Michelette works at the Champagne video store, where she has her pick of films, but all she does is obsessively watch episodes of the Colombian soap opera Betty, la fea. Exasperated, Felinez drags me into their latest Bronx tale. Apparently, Michelette is threatening to move to Bogotá with their aunt Flamingo, which would leave Felinez and their younger brother, Juanito, in the lurch, since their parents travel most of the time in a cover band called Las Madres y los Padres.

  “Why would she want to live with someone who doesn’t even
have a DVD player?” I ask, puzzled.

  Suddenly, a truck backfires and sends me practically diving right into the metal trash can on the corner. The burly men in the truck even have the nerve to start whistling at us.

  “Maybe it’s time to call Geico!” I snarl at them, then end the call to Felinez.

  “Did you call Angora yet?” Aphro asks, getting me back on track.

  “For the second time,” I insist, “I’d have better luck paging the Easter Bunny.”

  As we turn the corner, Aphro starts to say something, then backs out: “Never mind.”

  “What are you hiding?” I ask her, getting spooked out by her secret. “Does it have to do with something at home?”

  “Why you keep asking me that?” she retorts, defensively.

  “Because I know the dealio,” I say, not backing down. Her foster mother, Mrs. Maydell, is really nice, but Mr. Maydell is gruff around the edges. Aphro senses what I’m thinking: “Yes, he’s always on Lennix, but he leaves me alone.”

  Nonetheless, I can see the tears welling in Aphro’s eyes behind the usual bluster. She shakes her head, then pats the bangs down on her bob as if she’s trying to straighten out something. We walk silently to the front of the Jones Uptown boutique, which is obviously under construction, judging by the brown paper–lined windows. “Ms. Lynx says Laretha can be a handful,” I warn Aphro, then repeat Ms. Lynx’s advice in my head like a mantra: If you can’t handle a designer’s roar, then you’ll never survive in the fashion jungle.

  “Well, I hope she’s got some talent—to go with that noise,” Aphro says, ringing the loud buzzer of the mystery boutique. We stare at the windows, trying to get a peek inside, to no avail. “I wonder when this place is gonna open.”

  “Not soon enough,” I say, sighing. “The only thing I need more than a job is a job right now.”

  “I hear that,” Aphro seconds, then rings the buzzer again. We both get quiet at the sound of jingling keys being inserted into the lock on the other side of the door. Seconds later, open sesame, the glass door swings and a brown-skinned lady with a purple head wrap sticks her head out.

  “Can I help you?” she asks. I shriek inside, wondering if I screwed up my appointment. When I called earlier, I told the lady on the phone that I was referred by Ms. Lynx. She rushed me off before I could elaborate but I heard commotion in the background, so I didn’t push it. Now I can see that all the commotion is probably construction-related.

  “Yes, I’m Pashmina—”

  “Lord, I forgot,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “I thought you wasn’t coming.”

  “Oh, you said before closing, so I came as soon as I could,” I start in, noticing she looks supa-stressed—probably about opening her store on time. I know the drill: store announcements are mailed at a bulk postage rate; trunk shows are planned; opening discount incentives are given. We covered it all in my Retail 101 class.

  “That’s fine—I got so much going on in here, I don’t know what day it is,” she says, shaking her head, then opening the heavy door wider to let us in.

  “I’m Laretha Jones.”

  I smile back at her warmly. Aphro is too busy gaping at the iridescent violet moiré wall treatment. “Oh, this is major,” she squeals.

  Aphro releases a few more oohs and aahs at the purple tiered shelves and racks, next to a lilac wood display case. A man on a ladder is painting an into-the-woods-type mural on the wall near the dressing rooms, but apparently it’s not to Laretha’s liking. “Those are not trees, those are twigs!” she complains. While the two have a heated discussion about forest foliage, I examine the layout carefully, but I can’t help feeling puzzled pink. Ms. Lynx said that Laretha and I shared a shade in common. I shake my curls, trying to recount the encounter in Ms. Lynx’s office.

  “Would you like to see the rest of the store?” Laretha asks me.

  “Yes!” I say, enthusiastically. “This really is major.”

  Laretha shows us the back area, which is packed with inventory covered in plastic. “This is where the sewing machines are going to be,” she explains, “and the cutting table.”

  “Is this your first boutique?” I ask.

  “Yes, indeed, but I worked for years on Seventh Avenue, which is how I know Ms. Fab,” Laretha explains. “She modeled for Adolpho. Back then, I was his design assistant.”

  “Oh, I remember seeing one of the Adolpho ads in her office,” I say, recalling the photo of Ms. Fab in a pink and gray tweed suit holding a large Saint Bernard on a gold chain leash by her side.

  “Ooh, yes, Ms. Fab was something fierce—she still is, just bigger and I’m sure feisty as ever,” Laretha chuckles.

  “That’s for sure,” Aphro blurts out, but I pinch her in the side.

  Laretha beams at Aphro. “So who are you?”

  “Oh, my bad,” Aphro says, putting her hand over her mouth like she’s embarrassed. “I’m Pashmina’s best friend.”

  “Well, that’s nice. But what is your name?”

  “Oh, Aphro. Aphrodite Bright.”

  “That’s a very interesting name,” Laretha says like she’s intrigued.

  I’m wondering why Aphro left out the Biggie—maybe she didn’t want to appear too gangsta, even though I think her adopted moniker suits her perfectly.

  “Well, take a peek at my collection. It’s sort of early spring,” Laretha says, motioning to the racks.

  “Ooh, look at this!” Aphro says, lifting the plastic on one of the suits on the rack, a purple mohair duster with fringes. “You know, purple is my favorite color.”

  “Mine too,” Laretha says, ending the color-wheel mystery.

  “Oh, um, it is?” I ask, weakly.

  “After my sojourn to Africa, I had a spiritual awakening and wanted to embrace the royal colors of the motherland,” Laretha informs us.

  Laretha gazes at my pink outfit and smiles. “I used to love pink before my spiritual awakening but sometimes you have to let go of childish things. Now the only pastel I can be around is lavender. It’s so serene and peaceful.”

  “Pashmina is a hard-core pinkaholic!” snorts Aphro.

  Suddenly, I feel immature, wondering why Laretha and my best friend are being so shady with me, but soon Laretha offers an explanation.

  “It’s funny how something starts out as a color, but ends up an attitude,” she says.

  “That’s what I always say. Pink is not just a color, it’s a cattitude!” I blurt out, without thinking.

  Laretha smiles at me absentmindedly, because she is gazing at the lavender seed-bead lariat around Aphro’s neck like she’s just found herself another piece of serenity. “Now that’s interesting.”

  “Oh, I make them,” Aphro says, humbly.

  “Is that right?” Laretha asks, rhetorically. “Well, then we have to get some of your stuff up in here.”

  “Really?” Aphro asks, bringing the rhetoric full circle.

  “Aphro’s company is going to be called Aphro Puffs,” I offer, proudly.

  “I like that. I almost started making jewelry when I was back in high school. My parents wouldn’t hear of me going to a school like y’all do, so I had to go to Bed-Stuy High School right around the corner from us—”

  “Bed-Stuy High! I live four blocks from there!” exclaims Aphro.

  “Get out of here. I grew up there. Been in Harlem since I got married, though. Who’s your family?” Laretha asks, staring at the dusty haze on a counter’s surface.

  Aphro hesitates before she calmly announces, “Mr. and Mrs. Maydell—they’re my foster parents.”

  Laretha stops swiping dust from the counter in midair. “My mother raised lots of foster kids. Ain’t that something. I wonder if they know each other,” she muses, then looks closely at Aphro. “Are they treating you right?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Maydell is real cool,” Aphro says, refraining from revealing the tenseness between her and Mr. Maydell. “She works for Mos Def sometimes.”

  “Really?” Laretha says, clearly
impressed by Mrs. Maydell’s association with Brooklyn rap royalty. “What does she do?”

  “She’s a domestic,” Aphro says, nodding. “She used to work in Eartha Kitt’s estate in Connecticut. May she rest in peace—Eartha, I mean, not my foster mother.”

  Now Laretha is further impressed. I can tell by the way she nods. “Now you’re bringing me way back.” She breaks out into a grin that makes the gap between her front teeth appear wider. “When I first started designing for Adolpho, we’d take buyers out during market week to the piano bar at the Carlisle Hotel when Eartha Kitt was performing there, cuz we always knew the buyers would come back to the showroom the next day, and place bigger orders!”

  “That’s the power of the purr,” I say, chuckling.

  “Oh, y’all too young to know about Miss Eartha,” Laretha says, shaking her head.

  “I have a poster of her as Catwoman in my bedroom. Mrs. Maydell got it for me!” I share excitedly.

  “Ain’t that something. Lord, there will never be another Eartha,” Laretha says, staring at me, like she is noticing me for the first time. “Is that all your hair?”

  I’m not sure which answer will grant me access to Laretha’s royal treatment, so I opt for the truth. “Today it is,” I giggle.

  “Well, that is some head of hair,” Laretha says, beaming at me.

  “I know. It’s unbeweavable,” I giggle.

  Laretha beams at me again, then quickly announces, “I could stand here all day with you two, but I have a store to open—and I’m still sitting here under construction.”

  “I hear you,” I say, nodding and looking around in amazement. I can’t wait till I have my own store one day. “You know, I major in fashion merchandising and buying.”

  “Oh, so now you tell me,” Laretha says, nodding.

  For good measure, I throw in another career cachet: “And my mother is assistant manager at Forgotten Diva.”

  Laretha, who must be about one Reese’s Piece away from a size 18, stares at me blankly.

  “The plus-size boutique—on Madison?” I say, hesitating. My mom already hipped me to the reality about women and sizes: sometimes they act like they don’t know anything about plus-sizes so it doesn’t look like they shop there.